The lawyer's office was nothing like the Thomas family solicitor's wood-paneled sanctum. This one was in a nondescript business park, with beige walls, generic art, and the faint smell of burnt coffee. It felt appropriately transactional.
Jenny sat on one side of a small conference table, Ian on the other. Kate and Mark were in chairs against the wall, holding hands tightly. Dean was conspicuously absent.
Mr. Alvarez, a no-nonsense man in his fifties with a kind but weary face, slid copies of the document across the table. "This is highly unorthodox. My job is to ensure it's also legally sound and protects all parties. Please read carefully."
The title was stark: PRIVATE COHABITATION AND PARENTAL SUPPORT AGREEMENT.
Jenny's eyes scanned the clauses, each one a brick in the wall of their new life.
Section 2.1: Purpose of Union. The Parties hereby agree to enter into a legal marriage for the primary purpose of providing a stable two-parent household for the unborn child of Katherine Miller (hereafter "the Child"), and for providing social and familial legitimacy to both Parties.
Section 3.4: Separate Residences. The Parties will maintain separate bedrooms within the shared domicile. The marriage is platonic and shall not be consummated.
Section 4.2: Financial Provisions. Ian Carter shall provide housing, utilities, and a monthly stipend for household and personal expenses to Jennifer Thomas. Jennifer Thomas shall retain any independent income or scholarships. Separate bank accounts shall be maintained.
Section 5.1: Parental Rights & Responsibilities. Legal paternity of the Child shall be established to Ian Carter. Primary physical and emotional care of the Child shall be the responsibility of Jennifer Thomas, acting in loco parentis. Katherine Miller shall retain unrestricted visitation and co-decision-making rights.
Section 7.3: Dissolution. The agreement shall have an initial term of five (5) years from the date of the Child's birth, after which it may be dissolved by mutual agreement with a simplified, no-fault divorce. No spousal support shall be sought by either party.
Section 8.1: Confidentiality. The true nature of this agreement shall remain confidential. Public portrayal shall be that of a traditional marriage.
It went on for twenty pages. Assets, liabilities, healthcare directives, dispute resolution. It was a prenuptial agreement, a custody arrangement, and a business partnership rolled into one.
It was the most romantic thing no one would ever read.
"Any questions?" Mr. Alvarez asked.
Ian tapped a clause. "Section 6.5, about social engagements. 'The Parties shall make best efforts to present as a united couple at a minimum of four (4) family or public events per calendar year.' Can we define 'best efforts'? My mother's Christmas party is a three-day ordeal."
"We can amend to 'mutually agreed-upon events,'" the lawyer said, making a note.
Jenny pointed to another. "Section 5.3—medical decisions for the child. It says Kate and I share that. What if we disagree?"
Kate spoke from the wall. "We won't. I trust you."
The simple faith in those words made Jenny's throat tight. She nodded.
They spent an hour fine-tuning. It was surreal, discussing the terms of a shared life like they were negotiating a merger. Which, Jenny supposed, they were.
Finally, Mr. Alvarez slid a pen toward each of them. "If you're ready."
Ian picked up his pen, hesitated for only a second, then signed with a firm slash. Jenny followed, her signature neat and small beside his.
The sound of the pens scratching was the only noise in the room. It was done.
Two Weeks Later: The "Wedding"
They held it at the courthouse on a Tuesday morning. It was drizzling.
Jenny wore a simple cream-colored dress she'd found on sale. It was elegant, knee-length, utterly forgettable. Perfect. Kate did her makeup, her hands trembling slightly.
"You look beautiful," Kate whispered, brushing a stray eyelash from Jenny's cheek.
"I look appropriate," Jenny corrected gently, but she squeezed Kate's hand.
The attendees were minimal: Kate and Mark, Linda and Henry (who knew the full truth and had cried for an hour before giving their stoic blessing), and Ian's parents, Richard and Eleanor Carter. Ian had told them a sanitized version: he'd fallen for a quiet, serious scholarship student, she had no family, they were expecting a baby (a white lie about timelines), and they wanted to do the right thing quickly.
Eleanor Carter looked Jenny up and down with the assessing eye of a woman used to evaluating bloodlines and social credentials. She saw the simple dress, the lack of jewelry, the calm demeanor. She saw, Jenny hoped, someone who wouldn't cause trouble.
"Well," Eleanor said finally, offering a stiff cheek for a kiss. "You're certainly not what we expected for Ian. But you seem… sensible."
It was the highest praise Jenny could have hoped for.
Richard Carter shook her hand firmly. "Welcome to the family, Jennifer."
The word family felt like a borrowed coat, several sizes too big.
The ceremony itself took four minutes. They exchanged plain bands. Ian's fingers were cool when he slid the ring onto hers. When the officiant said, "You may kiss the bride," there was a fraught pause. Ian leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek chastely. It smelled of his citrus cologne and rain.
"Partners," he murmured against her skin.
"Partners," she whispered back.
They signed the marriage license. Another signature, this one for the state. This one that would, they believed, be real.
As they walked out of the courthouse, a weak sun broke through the clouds. Ian's parents left quickly for a prior engagement. Linda hugged Jenny fiercely. "You call me. Every week."
"I will."
Mark shook Ian's hand, a man-to-man gesture full of unspoken gratitude and guilt. Then he pulled Jenny into an awkward hug. "Thank you," he rasped, his voice thick. "I'll never be able to thank you enough."
When it was just the four of them on the wet steps—Ian, Jenny, Kate, Mark—the reality descended. They were married. Kate was five months pregnant. There was no going back.
"Where to now?" Kate asked, trying for lightness.
"Home," Ian said. He looked at Jenny. "Our apartment is ready. Dean… moved his things out last weekend."
There was a world of pain in that sentence. Jenny just nodded.
The Apartment
Ian's apartment was in a renovated brick building near the university. It was spacious, modern, with high ceilings and large windows. It was also painfully stylish—all minimalist furniture, abstract art, and not a single cozy touch.
"Your room is down the hall on the left," Ian said, dropping his keys on a sleek console table. "I'm on the right. The middle room… we thought could be the nursery."
He sounded like a tour guide. Jenny carried her single duffel bag down the hall. Her room was large, empty save for a bed, a dresser, and a desk. A blank canvas. She set her bag on the floor. It looked pitiful in the space.
She heard Ian on the phone in the living room, his voice low, tense. "Dean, please… I told you, it doesn't change anything between us… No, she's not staying in my room, for God's sake…"
Jenny closed her door softly, muffling the sound. She unpacked her few things, placing them in the vast drawers with care. She set the poetry book with Jade's photograph in the bedside table. She hung her clothes in the closet, where they occupied about a foot of space.
Then she stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself. The silence was absolute. She could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic. She was a wife. In a stranger's home. Waiting for another woman's baby.
The magnitude of it threatened to crush her. She walked to the window, looking out at the city lights beginning to wink on in the twilight.
Work with what is, she told herself. This is security. This is a roof. This is a purpose.
She repeated it like a mantra until her breathing evened out.
A knock on the door. "Jenny?" Ian's voice.
"Come in."
He entered, looking as uncomfortable as she felt. "I ordered Chinese. I didn't know what you liked, so I got a bunch. It's in the kitchen."
"Thank you."
They stood in awkward silence.
"I know this is… weird," he said finally.
"It's what we agreed to."
"Right." He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, my family expects us at brunch on Sunday. A sort of post-wedding thing. Are you… up for that?"
A performance. Their first public test. "Of course. What should I know?"
He gave her a quick briefing—his aunt who talked too much, his uncle who told bad jokes, his mother's favorite topics (gardening, classical music, the decline of manners). Jenny listened, committing it to memory like studying for an exam.
"You're taking this very… calmly," he observed.
"It's just data," she said. "I'm good with data."
He gave her a long, searching look, then nodded. "Okay. Well. I'll be in my room if you need anything."
He left, closing the door behind him.
Jenny sat on the edge of the bed. She took out her notebook. On a fresh page, she began a new list.
Rules for the Role:
1. Be pleasant, not memorable.
2. Listen more than you speak.
3. Remember the details.
4. Protect Kate's place.
5. Protect the child.
She underlined the last one twice.
Then she went to the kitchen, where white cartons of food steamed on the counter. She fixed two plates, knocked on Ian's door, and handed him one.
"Partners share food," she said simply.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Thanks."
They ate their first meal as a married couple at opposite ends of the large sofa, watching a nature documentary in silence. It wasn't companionship. But it wasn't hostility either. It was a ceasefire.
And for now, that was enough.